


all of the lives we are

by xaves



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Blood and Violence, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Hate Sex, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Joe's romantic heart, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nicky's freckles, Porn With Plot, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, working with a mild interpretation of a frame narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaves/pseuds/xaves
Summary: When Yusuf shoves the side of the man's face into the sand, grinding it down, he thinks the Italian could even be handsome.Light freckles dot the flesh nestled in the hollow of his throat. Like someone spilled the gentle marks on his skin and that's where they gathered. Yusuf tilts his head and wonders. Wonders if the freckles would still be visible if he set his teeth there and left a bruise. Would they just fade into the blue-black of injured skin? Or would they darken, too? Fill with blood until they became dark pearls to adorn his neck like a cruel gift?Or: A story of how Nicolò di Genova and Yusuf al-Kaysani met; not at Jerusalem, but at Asqalan. As told by an incurable romantic.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 48
Kudos: 540





	all of the lives we are

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a PWP. _It was supposed to be a PWP._ I promise little historical accuracy, but I did strive to be as respectful as possible, so please reach out if there's something off. 
> 
> Big thank you to [hndmaidn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hndmaidn/profile) for being the best beta.

* * *

**Ramadan 23 / August 13**

Yusuf takes his time coming up from the beach, wiping his face and hair down with his tunic after his morning swim, letting the still mild heat of early morning dry the rest of him.

The sands are white like alabaster and soft beneath his bare feet, and the tide hums behind him in a soothing, endless rhythm. It's peaceful here. A shame, really, that it was the war that brought him to this side of the Roman Sea. Business, not pleasure. But a man could get used to an oasis like this.

Yusuf has never been much of a morning person, truthfully. The whole syrupy slow and aching rise from bed, the hurry of getting to the duties of the day, the sluggish lurch of waiting for sleep to fall away from his bones. It's not for him. He'll wake with the sun for his prayers, yes, but after? Better to lounge amidst clean white sheets while the hustle and bustle occurs beyond his walls. Even better if he shares those hours alongside another, legs tangled, exchanging unhurried kisses and pressing curious touches. Now _that_ would be an ideal morning.

But, ever a creature of habit, he got up with the sun today, too. Though after _Fajr_ , with no warm blankets to return to, he found himself unable to resist throwing his body into the tide to wash away the sweat and shake the dreams from his eyes.

And it's not like he doesn't have someone to keep him company, either.

Tossing his damp tunic over his shoulder, he makes a beeline for the hidden alcove nestled amidst the rocky outcrops just beyond the beach, stepping carefully over stones and shells.

His companion waits just beyond the lip of the shallow cave, right where he left him.

Trussed up like a lamb to slaughter, hands and feet bound. Eyes blazing with hatred behind thick, unkempt hair matted with sand, mouth curled into a snarl-

_"Maledetto saraceno, ti taglierò come un cane-!"_

Ah, but he managed to get the gag off.

Yusuf tilts his head while his pants quietly drip ocean water onto the rough cave floor, but he doesn't regret keeping them on for his swim now. Sort of figured something like this would happen. He sinks down into a crouch and, moving slowly to make sure the other man sees everything, he pulls the dagger from the sheath on his belt.

"I may be a dog," he murmurs, noting how the Italian's eyes dart to the weapon. Looks like he's gotten his attention. That will make the next part much easier. Yusuf flicks the knife up, waggling the wickedly sharp tip in a particularly menacing fashion, "But you're the one barking too much, _aljuru."_

The other man doesn't understand his Maghrebi, but the blade speaks for itself. He's stopped wriggling, now lying limp and still on his side, a resigned scowl twisting his features. A beast showing its belly, perhaps.

Or playing dead to survive.

Yusuf intends to find out. He leans in close, smirking slightly when he notices the other's flinch, and brings up the blade to a twitching throat, pressing the flat of it to his adam's apple just to feel him swallow against it.

"Let's see if we can fix that, hmm?"

**Ramadan 4 / July 25**

_"Augh_ , could the Franks have maybe chosen a better season for their slaughter? I am starting to suspect the pale fools enjoy burning and stinking in the sun."

Yusuf snorts, smiles, even as he, too, feels sweat snake down his back under the lightweight but thick padding of his armor. The tunic beneath is already soaked through, sticking to his back. He can't exactly disagree; his head is absolutely baking beneath his helmet and turban, and his legs are numb. The heat of the sun reaching its zenith above them is particularly terrible in the cloudless sky today and the upcoming hours, days, _weeks_ promise more of the same.

If Yusuf al-Kaysani wasn't so furious, he would have complained, too.

With only the sun and the sands as witnesses, the Fatimid army rides on through the merciless lands. North, to the Holy Land. To battle.

The overall rancor that hangs over vizier al-Afdal Shahanshah's army is as stifling as the scorching air. _Al-Quds_ had fallen to the Christian armies ten days prior. Hastily written reports delivered by exhausted messengers were still coming in, each more bleak as the last. Only the vizier and his top men were privy to the details, but rumors and hearsay traveled faster than any horse.

By now, every man knew of the transcriptions of the slaughter in the land now called Jerusalem: streets filled with enough blood to stain feet up to the ankles, thousands upon thousands dead, ancient sacred sites pillaged. Corpses of men, women, and children alike, all stacked in heaps large enough to resemble houses.

Every man marching knows that those deaths are on their shoulders.

Every man knows that they should have been there. If not to stop the Christians from killing their people, then to at least have died fighting rather than sitting and waiting to be called to a battle that had already been lost.

The defeat is more than enough to set a foul, hostile mood, but the vizier's new insistence on riding at dangerously breakneck speeds through the sands isn't helping matters. The men's exhaustion is beginning to overpower their lust for revenge, and they're losing horses quickly as they push them to their deaths in the stretched out days of unrelenting heat.

Most are bearing it in silence, saving their breath and what little moisture was left in their mouths.

Yusuf's riding partner, Isma'il, is a bitter and grumbling exception.

"I hope they boil to death in their steel suits, the lot of them, while we ride our asses raw."

Still, Yusuf has a soft spot for the teen. They're both from Maghrib, for one, and for another, Isma'il at least guarantees an entertaining journey. Yusuf is also convinced that half the far-fetched rumors about Franks probably stem from the young man.

They're pausing to let the horses drink from a nearby river. A year ago, it had been waist deep, a beautiful clear blue. But the harsh summer had reduced it to barely a rivulet of muddied water trailing its way down the nearly dry riverbed, heading to the coast to the west. To the east, scrublands and desert stretches out far out into the horizon. Around them, the cavalry of 500 archers and swordsmen rests, sweating, tired, miserable, and just as full of rage as Isma'il.

 _Good,_ Yusuf thinks grimly, dropping a rag into the disappointing stream of water. _They're going to need it._

He slaps the cool, wet cloth onto the back of his hot neck, sighing at the fraction of relief it provides. "Could have sworn you were the one running your mouth the other day, complaining how we were travelling much too slow. I thought you would have welcomed this brisk pace."

Young Isma'il, barely tall enough to use the bow strapped to his back, squints off into the distance, where dark storm clouds promise an incoming sandstorm. Then he shakes his head, looking disgusted enough to hide the troubled downturn of his mouth while he fills water skins to be drunk from once the sun set and they broke their fast.

"Maybe we wouldn't have to hurry so if our excellent leader hadn't sat on his hands in Cairo all the while, trying to make _friends_ with the butchers instead of killing them where they stood."

Every man knows that maybe if they had left weeks ago, as planned, Al-Quds would still be unharmed, their people alive.

Maybe.

"Strong wind coming in," Yusuf remarks lightly, unwilling to linger on what could have been when it's impossible to change what _is_. "You wanted to get to battle, didn't you? Best get back on your horse if we're to make it. _Yallah_ ," then swats at the boy when he scowls and dawdles, but Isma'il would never dream of actually disobeying the commander of the advance guard. Grumbling a 'yes, lord,' he picks up his bow again and stomps back to his mare.

Yusuf watches him go, fond, pondering if he's so protective of the saturnine boy because he doesn't have a son of his own. He's never felt any pull to start a family, and yet, in an uncharacteristically fatherly way, he feels a fierce need to shelter his men, to keep them safe. All of them, but especially Isma'il and the rest of the boys that have been called from their homes.

Yusuf had, after all, been allowed his youth. Those years had been peaceful. And he knows many of his younger soldiers will not be so blessed in the coming days.

A sobering thought, compounded with the sandstorm the others are eyeing with worry, still making its way towards them.

As an extra precaution, Yusuf grabs the wet rag from his neck and ties it to cover his mouth instead. They still have nearly two weeks of riding ahead of them, and the vizier's main forces are only hours behind them. It's best not to tarry.

With practiced ease, he snags the reins of his own steed and swings up into the saddle. The rest of the men quickly follow suit, unwilling to waste any more precious time.

They had been too late to save the Holy Land.

But perhaps they would make it in time to take it back.

**Ramadan 21 / August 11**

They make camp just outside the walls of Asqalan, less than half a day's ride from Al-Quds. The men are tired, but their spirit is strong. Yusuf stands proudly as al-Afdal arrives just after sunset with the footmen and supplies, giving an approving nod at the order and discipline of his soldiers.

"A shame we cannot break the Franks' fast with our swords down their throats. I suppose we will have to settle for the midday meal," the vizier jokes within earshot of the gathered men. They laugh, cheer, share their food between each other, and, after prayers, settle in to sleep, happy to ease their sore muscles on their bedrolls and confident of the triumph awaiting them in the new day, in the sacred lands, in their most sacred month, in the hands of God.

Yusuf doesn't think much of the vizier and his methods of command (besides the fact that he's clearly a coward that prefers to lead from the back), but he agrees with the sentiment. He's been waiting for a chance to put his blade to use. His muscles ache for it, his teeth even more so from how often he's grit them in anticipation. He's become well-accustomed to this anger, to this side of him that was born in the muck and mire of war. His fingers are far too stained and battleworn to return to his sketches and his art now. The sword is all he has left. Might as well use it while God allows it.

He intends to stay up to sharpen his blade and prepare for battle, but even his thirst for blood is quelled by the deep weariness of the journey. He sinks into slumber as easily as the rest, whetstone and scimitar untouched.

**Ramadan 22 / August 12**

They let the fires burn into the night, keeping them warm, letting the light shine like beacons in the darkness of the desert.

They do not put up a protective perimeter, unwilling to waste precious resources hours before a battle.

They don't set enough guards to watch the camp. Not nearly enough.

And as the sun's orange and pink fingers just begin to streak across the sky, reaching in earnest for the retreating moon, Godfrey's army rises from the dunes. Just before the _adhan_ , before they can offer the _Fajr_ , God's most-favored prayer.

Along with the crosses on their chests, the Godfrey's men wear the haze of dawn like a shroud. It masks their arrival and keeps their drawn weapons from catching the light.

The too-few soldiers standing watch fall in silence to arrows. The rest sleep on, unaware.

Half of them die in their beds before they're even aware that the Franks are upon them. The rest would have met the same fate, if not for the Europeans taking their swords to the horses and doing a poor job of it.

It's when the beasts start to _scream_ that Yusuf and his remaining brothers are jolted awake, sent scrambling for weapons as they take in the camp, now transformed into an utter massacre.

"We're under attack!" someone yells. "Weapons! Weapons to fend off the Franks!" wails another.

To battle, to battle, _to battle_.

Adrenaline flushing out what little drowsiness remains from his slumber like a slap to the face, Yusuf rolls to his feet, snatching up his scimitar in the same motion. It feels good in his hand; as ready as he is. This is what they came for, isn't it? This is why they're here.

He tries to look past his fallen soldiers, the ones he failed to protect. Swallows down the smell of blood until he can't taste anything else. Sinks into his rage and grief until he's made of nothing else. He seeks out an opponent and three men with those red crosses burned into their armor like targets turn in his direction. Yusuf lifts his sword, sure in his skill and his cause. Exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back. And steps forward to meet them.

They desire death? He will grant it. _Gladly._

One step, then another, and a cry rattles in the back of his throat as he summons the strength to destroy those that wouldn't hesitate to destroy him.

He doesn't make it to them.

Doesn't see the blur beside him, too focused on the chaos of the battle, on the uncountable bodies of the dead and the dying surrounding him. He doesn't see the fourth warrior before it's too late. On his next breath, the blade is already buried in his gut.

It's deep. It's _cold._ There's no need to even look down, he knows the blow is fatal as soon as the sword is pulled free again and dark blood begins to spill onto his boots. Instead, he stares down the Frank that bested him, stance unwavering.

He has killed him.

Yusuf bares his teeth in a feral, furious snarl at the pale eyes that look back, unrepentant.

But. He did make one mistake.

"You should have gone for my throat."

Because now, oh. Now Yusuf al-Kaysani has just enough time to _strike back._

He lifts his scimitar with an agonized growl. To avenge his people, to make his mark in this doomed fight, if not simply to justify his own pointless death.

But before he musters the strength to move, an arrowhead suddenly sprouts from the Frank's neck, poking out like grotesque jewelry. The man looks stunned behind his light, auburn beard, and he tries to say something, to form words around the shaft of wood piercing his windpipe. Blood-flecked lips flap uselessly as he gurgles out a pained breath, before finally collapsing. He's dead before he even hits the ground.

It's justice, in a way, even if it's not by his weakening hand.

 _"Lord!"_ Isma'il darts out of the shadows, bow in hand, string still quivering from the shot, just in time to catch Yusuf as he also begins to sink to his knees. He sees the blood spilling, spilling, spilt, and cries out as he presses his hand against the gaping wound, pointlessly trying to stop the flow.

"My lord, I was too late."

Yusuf can only shake his head, which makes the world lurch and wobble. He blinks, unaware of when he has laid down, but he finds that he's prone now, looking up at Isma'il's tear-streaked face and the pale morning sky beyond that.

"None of that, boy," Yusuf says, hating how weak he sounds. How tired. "Go on, leave the dying to their fate."

Isma'il frantically shakes his head, sleep-mussed hair sticking every which way like a bird's nest. _Fool has forgotten his helmet._ The lack of it makes him look so young.

"No, no, I will not leave you, there is still-"

"There is nothing left to do for me," Yusuf stops him, reaches up to clasp the teen's shoulder, leaving red stains with his fingertips. "I go to God with the others. But the battle's end is not yet decided. Go," he pushes him away. _"Go."_

Isma'il's mouth moves in a reply, no doubt to protest, but Yusuf can't hear it anymore, can't hear the sounds of combat, either. Only the thudding of his heart remains to echo in his ears, slower, and slower, until his vision begins to darken and he doesn't feel anymore, doesn't see, doesn't hear.

He thought it would be easy to die. Peaceful, even. But all he feels, simmering in the dark he's sinking into, is frustration and bitter anger. He has _so much of it._ It was all he had left to offer, in the end, and it wasn’t enough. To die while his men are being gutted in their sleep, without taking any of the damned Franks with him - what wretched injustice was this? He had hoped for an honorable death, but not like this, not when he could have done more for his people.

Strength leaves his body even more rapidly than the blood from his belly, but he wants to claw his way back to life, he wants to _live_ and he's not even hurting, he's... he's-

Well, nothing. _Nothing._

  
  
  
  
  
  


Until... he _awakes._

  
  
  


Yusuf's eyes snap open. Breath slams back into lungs that were still and inert just moments earlier and he chokes on the death rattle still sitting heavy at the back of his throat, coughs to clear it with a grating, jagged wheeze. His beating heart weighs like a stone in his chest. An unnatural anchor, bolstering him as awareness returns in quick, jarring stages.

 _I was dead,_ he thinks frantically as the noise of the continuing battle crashes through his ears in a stinging cacophony of noise. Around him, the fight rages on and he sits in the middle of it, dazed. He sits up, groaning, gasping, feeling an ache deep in his abdomen where he knows, he's _certain_ a sword had run him through. Perhaps just minutes ago: he can even feel the blood on his armor is still wet when he pats at his wound. But when he wriggles his fingers through the cut in his clothing, the skin on his belly is smooth. Unmarked.

 _I_ was _dead._

Has God granted him a second chance? Another life? Did his unreleased rage, sitting deep in his chest, tie his soul down to earth for one more attempt at revenge? Yusuf shakily casts his eyes around, looking for his sword, fingers reaching out to scrabble in the dust of the camp. Then he realizes that he's still clutching it, that he died clinging to the hilt of his weapon.

He died. Yet he's alive once more. There's no time for questions.

It's time to fight.

"Alhamdulillah," Yusuf breathes out in shivering disbelief, feeling like he can't possibly pull in enough of the humid, copper-accented air of morning into his chest to express his gratitude. He moves stiffly, clambers to his feet, slipping in the sand. Off-kilter. But eager.

The rest of his men are still fighting the Franks, but Allah has given him his favor, his weapon, and his life; everything he needs to try again.

 _'Hoping for death, I flung myself into the fray. But alas, my hour had not yet come.'_ Like in the poems.

He takes a step. Then another. And then he's _running_ , a war cry burning his tongue, his sword hungry for blood to paint its deadly edge. He reaches some of the fighting, cuts down two Franks without thought, their cries of surprise as unheard as the gasps of surprise from his own men who had been pinned down. His weapon is barely free from the enemy's chest but he's already moving on, plunging into another group of Franks, following the trail of red crosses like bread crumbs. They all fall, like flimsy toy soldiers instead of men, crumpling beneath his blessed blade and his burning hate.

Yusuf is reborn. Allah guides him. He is chosen.

There's blood on his hands, on his face, painting him in his victories. He feels like he could fly, riding the wind of this strength and the magnitude of powers beyond his mortal understanding.

His step only falters when an arrow thuds into his shoulder. From behind.

Yusuf wheels around, ready to furiously plunge his sword into whatever coward chooses to strike a man's back.

When he turns, familiar pale eyes and an auburn beard wait for him. The Frank doesn't lower his bow. In fact, he himself has three arrows stuck in his body _(though the one in his neck is gone, how did he-?)_. Unflinching, the man yanks out a shaft lodged in his thigh and sets it to the bowstring instead.

Yusuf stares. _Impossible._

And then the bastard shoots.

It's only his training and adrenaline that saves him. Yusuf just barely manages to duck out of the way, but he spares no time on his second brush with death. He's already moving so as not to give the archer another chance to shoot him. He doesn't notice the first arrow pushing itself out of the meat of his shoulder, falling to the ground behind him. He's far too focused on how the Frank grimaces as soon as he realizes he's missed, how he dives for his sword and hefts it.

A longsword. And if Yusuf's first death is any indication, he looks like he knows how to use it.

Yusuf grins wide like a wolf finding its prey, thrilled for a decent bout. About damn time.

The poem. The words, they had also said, _'Though the barbarians wrest from me my realm. My courage and my pride remain steadfast.'_

It's as good an omen as any, that Al-Mu'tamid's words would come to him now. Fill him, steady him.

Yusuf knows his god is with him. He raises his sword in a brief salute, like he knows the Christians like. But he doesn't give him a chance to return it. Immediately, he's lunging forward with a powerful downward slash in an attempt to just cleave him in two and end it.

The bearded Frank meets his blade with a clang. Pushes him off like it's nothing. This close, Yusuf can see how blue his eyes are. And he _remembers_ , he _saw_ the life go out of them.

Dead. And yet alive.

"Let us see if your Christian God has granted you a third life, then," Yusuf shakes off the lingering reverberations from his arm, feeling like he should remember why it stings a bit, like he should care that this man has also been brought back from the dead, but it's... secondary. Far more important to know that the man who felled him the first time is possibly his match. It will feel all the better when he puts him down like the rabid beast he is.

Yusuf settles into an easy fighting stance, scimitar outstretched to his side. Then he lifts his left hand and beckons the Frank forward with two fingers.

_"Yallah."_

The Christian soldier had been silent so far, but his demeanor cracks enough to snarl at the taunt. It's cheap, Yusuf knows. But it's absolutely worth it to get this man to be as pissed off as he is.

With a sharp yell, the Frank changes the grip on his sword and pushes in with a swift stab, aiming for the heart. Yusuf twists his body out of the way at the last possible moment, light on his feet. The pale-eyed warrior tries again, studying him with short experimental jabs, and Yusuf deflects them, pushing back on the attack to drive the man backward.

The Frank stumbles.

Too easy. Yusuf sweeps his sword out in a deadly arch, intending to cut across the man's abdomen and send his guts spilling.

The Frank ducks low before the weapon can connect, darting out of his feint, and pops up before Yusuf can recover, delivering a solid kick to Yusuf's stomach that knocks the wind out of him.

Yusuf doubles over with a wheeze, surprised. So he shoots men in the back and he's a damn cheat, too. It's all Yusuf can do to bring up his blade to block the man's second, more pressing attack. There's no time to catch his breath, to stay aware of his surroundings. There's only this man and their blades.

They launch into a vicious exchange of crashing blows that make their teeth rattle in their skulls. Two whirlwinds colliding in the chaos, flowing around each other while the camp begins to burn, smoke overpowering the smell of blood in the air. They press in close, then apart again, their dancing swords seeking to cut and tear and kill as the steel sings through the air. The Frank cuts his arm to the bone, bruises his ribs with a sharp elbow thrust. Yusuf wounds the side of the Frank’s neck, slices through the thick tendon on the back of his right calf.

Hits that would have brought down the average man. Not Yusuf. And not the pale-eyed warrior. They bleed. And then they don't. They cry out. And then they keep going.

Yusuf is vibrating with frustration, and yet begrudgingly impressed. The Frank has strength, and he's well-versed with this sword, skilled in the typically artless technique he sees from most European soldiers. He's an excellent foe. And this is a good fight.

A shame that he's just too damn slow.

It just takes one second of hesitation, a delayed reaction, but it's enough. Yusuf's skin lights up with the thrill of it when he sees his opening, slipping around a thrust to bury his sword deep in the warrior's chest, then out through the back.

The killing blow brings them in until they're almost touching, and Yusuf can hear the small, surprised exhale the Frank releases when he finally realizes what's happened, what's gone wrong. It's like a stutter. His gaze flickers. His lips part, twist into a grimace to reveal teeth grit together.

For a man who's already died once today, it doesn't appear that the second time hurts any less.

Noting that, Yusuf twists the blade sharply, cruelly, pulling out a ragged cry from punctured lungs.

"A fanabl-" the man begins to hiss in garbled Italian, but chokes on the blood bubbling up in his mouth. And for the second time, Yusuf has the satisfaction of seeing those light-colored eyes find him, shocked and angry, before they dim and turn glassy.

The lifeless man slides right off his blade with a slick, wet sound, landing in a very still heap.

"I suggest you stay dead this time," Yusuf flicks the blood from his blade, sparing the man one final appraising look. He feels a deep pleasure at vanquishing this unnatural foe, and his gaze lingers on the unblinking stare still fixed on him in death.

A stare that, a moment later, stutters back into life. The Italian blinks.

 _"Shit."_ Without thinking, Yusuf plunges his sword right back into the man's chest, where his killing blow is already closing over before his eyes. He buries it deep enough to pin the cursed Frank to the ground, who flails a bit against the weapon before going limp once more.

What will it take to kill this man, if not a sword or an arrow? Yusuf looks about with a tense urgency, suspecting that the time he has before the man comes back to life is short. Still, there's little around him that could possibly be of help against a man immune to death. Items discarded from his brothers-in-arms, mostly. Tools, rope, food, blankets. All useless.

Then he spots it; an axe, lying nearby, abandoned by its dead owner. Perfect for beheading this Frank and ending the battle once and for all.

He takes his eyes off the Italian for just a moment. _Seconds_ , just to take the two steps necessary to retrieve the weapon.

It's enough. He suddenly feels a hand grip his turban, digging into the material, then _yank_. He should have just fallen backward, thrown the man off balance, but instead Yusuf stands his ground, planting his feet. Instead of stumbling, his head is pulled back, exposing his neck.

He knows he's dead before the other even drags the arrowhead across his throat.

This time, Isma'il is not there to save him.

This time, Yusuf dies face first in the dirt, suffocating on his own blood.

  
  
  


In the space between death and life, he dreams.

Well, before that, he does actually gasp back into awareness in time to feel the Frank loop a rope around his neck. His eyes can't seem to focus, so he blindly curses and wriggles against the noose until he's jerked, tripped, and finds himself dragged behind a horse that he's been tied to. The warrior clicks his tongue and the horse begins to trot, then gallop, pulling Yusuf along like useless cargo. It doesn't take long for Yusuf to meet his third death.

But in the moments between dying and waking, between the coarse sand ripping his skin and the swift speed of the horse making his bones break against harsh stones and earth, in those interludes where he dies, again and again, he dreams.

He dreams of two women and a man, huddled around a fire, sharing a meal and laughing. They are dressed like soldiers, but without any insignia to show what faction, what army they belong to. But they belong, in a way, to each other. Yusuf is drawn to them, to their warmth. He doesn't know them, but the pull is there. They call to him, but Yusuf doesn’t know the words needed to respond, and when he opens his mouth to cry out, it fills with sand as he’s reborn once more, killed once more.

There's nothing in between the spaces of living and dying. No embrace of God, no peace. Only his soul. It doesn't make sense. All his teaching, all his faith, it promised more, but all he finds is a bleak non-existence.

Yusuf hovers in the emptiness like dust, fractured into pieces. Loses parts of himself there. Perhaps... perhaps one day, there may not be enough of him left to come back whole.

The next time he wakes, it's to hands shoving his head into the sea while salt water floods his lungs.

Yusuf nearly dies again, but his instinctual need to survive drives him to trash and kick out enough. He fights at the Italian's grip enough to turn and get himself on his back in the water. It's comforting to have the sky above him, at least. Less so the grim, determined face of a man set on killing him.

Wasting little time, the Frank gets a firm grip on Yusuf's throat and pushes him back under. In response, Yusuf wraps his legs firmly around his attacker's waist, holding on while the ocean waves make them bob and sway. It doesn't seem to bother the Frank, who determinedly squeezes harder, making Yusuf's vision blur, darkness teasing at the edges.

There's no dignity in this death. There's no weapon in his hand. Just the taste of salt to numb his tongue and rushing water to deafen him.

So Yusuf surges up with the last dregs of energy and every bit of his rage and slams his fist directly into the warrior's temple. Even if Yusuf can't quite see, can't quite hear the thud, he can feel the hit connect. The Frank instantly goes limp, fingers loosening from his throat. He begins to sink. So does Yusuf, and he goes without a fight this time. Lets the water take him where it must, too tired to fight the tide.

The ocean eventually pushes both of them back out, crashing them down onto the soft sands of an empty beach. Yusuf is awake, pushing up onto his elbows to cough and spit up water. He wheezes hard enough to see spots.

 _"Bastard,"_ Yusuf says. His voice is a horrendous croak, throat rough from the sand and sea still sticking to it. "Guess your little baptism didn't take." Exhausted, it takes him more than a bit of grunting and struggling to get to his knees. His muscles ache, his head is swimming, and it's hard to tell if it's from the near-drowning or the unpleasant trip through the desert. Or both.

Eventually, his arms just give out and he bonelessly rolls onto his back. Just as well, he only has to turn his head to see the Italian is lying still beside him, deaf to any and all of Yusuf's insults and complaints. The bruise from Yusuf's fist is already fading faster than the retreating tide. Not dead, then. Just out cold. Which is a surprise, considering the man is still wearing his chain mail shirt and coif; he should have just been pulled to the bottom of the sea. Yet there he lies, annoyingly alive.

Yusuf runs a slow, thoughtful tongue over his salty lips and blinks in the bright, afternoon sun. The ocean laps at his feet. He sinks a little deeper into the wet sand.

 _Beach_ , his mind supplies. Yusuf frowns. They're on the- the _fucking beach_. This damned unkillable Frank has kidnapped him from battle and rode through the whole morning to bring him to the sea to kill him. Yusuf can't help but suspect that this is not what his god intended for him.

Some movement out of the corner of his eye finally gets him to sit up, looking around wildly, inexplicably expecting to see more of Godfrey's men storming the coast, swords drawn. Instead, it's just the horse that brought them both here, nosing curiously at a crab a bit of a ways down the beach. The rope Yusuf had been dragged with is still lashed to its saddle. There's a very clear section of it that's dark with blood.

How disappointed the Frank must have been to find that his captive had survived the journey. A desperate horse ride all the way to the coast, to try to let the sea finish the job, only to find him whole and breathing at the end of his noose.

Fuck. Yusuf tries to collect his disconnected thoughts, running sandy palms down his face and closing his eyes. Considers the situation, the man beside him, the rolling tide, and the smooth skin of his throat where it had once been torn open with arrow and rope fiber.

He could take the horse and run. Return to his brothers, forget this ever happened, go on with his life. He could go somewhere else entirely, too; just disappear.

"Fuck."

Or. He could stay.

_"Fuck."_

Yusuf lurches to his feet, wobbly but angry enough to keep his balance, and hobbles off to retrieve the rope.

He has questions. He’ll be damned if the Frank doesn't help him get some answers.

* * *

The Italian wakes up while Yusuf is in the middle of binding his legs together. It's awful timing; Yusuf had managed to drag the man up the beach, through painful stones and broken shells into the small cave not 50 meters away, and the Italian had barely stirred. Yusuf had even had time to double back to the horse to grab its saddle bags and tie its reins off on a sturdier branch of a scrub bush.

But no, of course, the pale-eyed man chose to return to consciousness right as Yusuf was kneeling at his feet, head bowed in concentration.

So _no, of course_ , Yusuf isn't expecting the comatose man's legs to suddenly snap open, lift, and wrap tightly around his neck in a chokehold.

He had gotten the Frank's wrists tied properly, at least, but he hadn't realized how lethal thighs could apparently be. Yusuf strains to suck in a breath while the Italian glowers at him in disgust, squeezing harder to cut off any further oxygen.

"Non toccarmi, bestia," he says in a thick snarl of a voice and it's Italian, but not. And if Yusuf wasn't so busy trying not to suffocate, he would have puzzled over that. His days as a merchant had given him a working knowledge of Italian, enough to trade both goods and insults (so he doesn't miss that part), but the Frank's dialect is Northern; heavy and strange.

Still, the meaning is clear. The man doesn't want to be touched? He can work with that.

Yusuf turns his head to the side as far as he can and proceeds to sink his teeth deep into the man's inner thigh.

There's a yelp, and a sharp, full-body flinch, but Yusuf just bites harder. Doesn't let go until he hears a hiss of pain and feels the man's legs widen even further to try to get away. Yusuf moves then, shoves the Italian's legs down and pins them to the sandy floor. The other man squirms, bucks his hips, fights against the ropes binding his hands behind his back. If the ropes weren't there, Yusuf suspects their fight would not have been nearly so short-lived.

He ignores the struggling and sits forward; clambers right on top to press his full weight into the Frank’s thighs with his knees and loom over him, bracket him in place.

He presses a hand down on his chest, right over the proud red sigil. Roughly grabs the Italian's face with the other, fingertips digging into cheeks, prickled by the facial hair there. Turns it back and forth a bit, feeling the man tighten his jaw.

"You try that again and you'll get more than a bite," Yusuf presses into his cheeks, grip tight and unkind. Soon enough, the man's lips are puckering and he's struggling for breath through his nose, face transitioning from ashen to a deep, distressed red. "Understand?"

The Italian growls, tries unsuccessful to jerk away. It occurs to Yusuf that perhaps his threat isn't actually being understood.

Yusuf is far too heavy to be thrown off easily, but he's not foolish enough to assume the Italian won't try anything. Nor does he want to give away quite yet that he can actually parse most of the man's odd Italian.

Better to physically show, rather than tell.

He shoves at the chain mail encircling his head, then the padding beneath, pulls and tugs at it to fall away and reveal long brown hair that matches the man's scruff. It's still wet from the sea, slippery, so Yusuf wraps his hands in the strands extra tightly, pulling them so they're taut and his fist is secure against the Italian's skull.

The man's body is tight as a bowstring beneath him, shaking from the tension.

A pause. The Italian has leveled a very blue, very angry stare at him. Pinpricks of tears, no doubt from how much his scalp is stinging, are gathering at the corners. Revulsion and bitter hate shapes his mouth into something ugly, but.

But when Yusuf crushes the side of the man's face into the sand, grinding it down, he thinks the Italian could even be handsome. He can't help seeing it, can't stop himself from examining the detail of the man's side-profile, even when he should be strangling him instead.

His jaw is sharp, finely carved beneath the light, unkempt beard. The lashes that frame his eyes are long, thick - pretty, almost. And the hair he has wrapped in his fingers, even filthy and gnarled with knots, is soft. He'd be willing to bet it's silky and shiny when it's actually clean.

Lower still, the exposed neck that strains against Yusuf's grip is corded with muscle, a shade paler compared to the tan tones of the man's face. And the space where the arrow had punctured his throat is nothing but smooth skin. Not even a scar.

Though light freckles dot the flesh nestled in the hollow of his throat. Like someone spilled the gentle marks on his skin and that's where they gathered. Yusuf tilts his head and wonders. Wonders if the freckles would still be visible if he set his teeth there and left a bruise. Would they just fade into the blue-black of injured skin? Or would they darken, too? Fill with blood until they became dark pearls to adorn his neck like a cruel gift?

Yusuf counts the pinpricks while their owner strains against his unyielding grip. Counts ten, feels himself lock the image in his mind despite himself, then finally looks away.

Well. At least he'll have something somewhat pleasant to look at while he's trapped in this unending fight with his sworn enemy.

The Frank is allowed to wriggle a bit more against the cave floor, practically spitting with indignity, feet scraping uselessly in the sand. Only when his message gets communicated, as indicated by the man twitching a little less and his body relaxing just a fraction, does Yusuf wrench his head back up by his hair, bringing their faces in close.

"I will kill you, Frank," Yusuf says, voice level and low. "I will kill you again and again until your god casts you aside and leaves your body to rot in the sun of this foreign land that will swallow your corpse whole."

He sees the Italian preparing to spit a second before it happens. His hand shoots out, snaps around the other's jaw just in time, clamping it shut. The position also allows Yusuf's thumb to settle at the soft, vulnerable underside of his jaw, digging deeper into the flesh until the man finally groans and the pulse he feels beating there flutters.

The grimace of pain makes Yusuf smile mildly. "And I clearly know quite a few ways to do it. Understand now?"

A warning.

One that seems to be heeded, despite the language barrier. The Frank, now muzzled, breathes harder through his flared nostrils. His glare is icy while he huffs and puffs like a bull, but he doesn't move again.

"You're just in luck that my curiosity is stronger than my blood thirst."

A quick cursory glance at himself shows that the knife Yusuf usually carries is still on his belt. Either the Italian had missed it, or hadn't even bothered disarming him. No matter.

Yusuf pins the man's head to the floor once more, holds him still while he pulls the knife free. Then he unceremoniously stabs it into the Italian's thigh.

The Italian's mouth drops open in shock. Yusuf's smile doesn't falter.

"Ah, seems like we have a common language after all."

Amidst the bitten-off gasps and choking curses, Yusuf sits back and retrieves the remaining rope and continues where he left off. The Italian tries to curl in on himself to alleviate the agony, but Yusuf simply grabs his ankles, tugging them together, and binds them tight. Only when the man is well and properly bound does he sit up. Looks over his work. And yanks the knife back out.

The Italian cries out hoarsely. He calls him a demon.

 _Perhaps,_ Yusuf thinks, watching the blood drip from the blade, _yet I was going to call you the same._

* * *

They stay in the cave. Yusuf still needs to know, can't shake the need to decipher this situation, even when he knows he could take the horse and return to his brothers.

He was brought back to life for a reason. So was the man across from him. Is their purpose to battle until their god relents? Is their fate an internal battle, locked into time to rage into endlessness?

The fruitlessness of the latter makes a bitter taste rise in the back of his mouth and he nearly chokes swallowing it back down.

Whatever their reason for being now, it doesn't appear that his partner in it is nearly as conflicted. The Italian simply lies there and watches him. Thinks about killing him, probably. His eyes unnerve Yusuf. They're the faint blue of churned water, of skies beyond gray thunder clouds, and unrelenting as steel. And they seem to see through Yusuf a bit more than he would care for.

But barring shifting to be as comfortable as a tied-up captive could be, the man doesn't stir. If he wonders why Yusuf hasn't tried to kill him again, why he's decided to keep him like this, he doesn't voice his questions. Eventually, he begins praying, lifting the weight of his angry gaze from Yusuf to close his eyes and mutter quietly under his breath.

It's honestly a relief.

 _Does He listen?_ Yusuf ponders, leaning back against the rocky wall to tug off his ruined riding boots. _Does He answer you? Did He answer when you burned cities, murdered thousands of innocents? Was that His will?_

Yusuf lets the Italian be. Let him commune with his cruel deity until lighting comes and strikes the rope from his wrists and ankles, for all he cares.

He busies himself, allows his mind to rest and makes his hands work instead. Sifting through the contents of the Frank's saddle bag is a good distraction: he finds rations for at least three more days, and fresh bread and cheese (no doubt taken from some destroyed merchant's cart back in Al-Quds). Taking stock of the rest, there's two full skins of water, flint and steel, a rudimentary kit for wounds, including, Yusuf notes with amusement, a slick oil for sun protection and ointment for the burns.

And a bible. Well cared for, bound in fine leather with gold-stamped lettering. Yusuf stops to run his fingers gently over the cover, to flip through the pages and the Italian words written by hand. Certain pages are bookmarked with ribbon. Words like 'justice' and 'righteousness' and phrases like 'Cursed is he who keeps back his sword from bloodshed' draw his eye. And his ire.

"You fight for this, don't you?" he says softly, glancing up at the Italian, unsurprised to see he's watching him again, expression placid but gaze as hard as chips of ice. Had he found peace with his God after all, then?

The thought of it pisses Yusuf off before he can rein in his emotions. "Don't you think," he bites out, "don't you fear that all that blood on your hands will stain the pages?"

Before he does something irrational like tear the book apart (he wants to) or fling it into the ocean (also tempting), he shoves it back into the saddle bag. The Franks might be happy to resort to desecration, but Yusuf won't sink to that level. When he looks over at the other man, the Frank's already returned to his quiet prayers.

The hours pass outside, marked by the movement of the sun, by Yusuf's own daily prayers, but time could very well have stopped for the two of them, in the unrelenting stand-off they've created. It's tense. The thick pall of silence is nothing less than awkward. They should be at each other's throats - isn't that what they were brought back for, if that is truly their only purpose, as vessels of their gods?

Only questions with no answers. And Yusuf isn't ready to ask the Italian for his thoughts on the matter.

Truly, what Yusuf wouldn't give for some of this calm that the Italian managed to carve for himself, though. Yusuf's prayers usually give him structure to the day. Now, they disorient him. Yusuf feels off-balance when he returns from offering his late afternoon _Asr_. Uncertain. Directionless.

All this life that he's been given, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He worries that he's made a mistake somewhere along the way. And the path back, to correct what he's done, is too shrouded to find when there is nothing to guide him back.

He discards what little is left of his armor that the desert didn't claim, somewhat regretfully. For months, he had cared for it, mended it, but it's beyond care now, torn and hanging on by mere threads at the seams.

Taking stock of himself, however, he finds no marks from any of his dives into death. No scarring on his own throat, no line on his chest, no deep welts from being dragged for hours through the desert. He's untouched. Protected.

And if death refuses to touch him, then the armor, he concludes ruefully, is useless to him regardless. Stripped down now only to his tunic, trousers, and boots, Yusuf feels horribly light and exposed, but he forces himself to sit back down across from the Italian. Hopefully, a relaxed posture will make him look believably at-ease, rather than like a soldier who's forgotten how to dress himself.

At least he's still armed. He found the Italian's longsword, strapped to the horse's saddle, and hid it in the dunes. The only weapon left between them is Yusuf's dagger securely strapped to his belt.

Yusuf pulls it from its sheath and gets out some of the food, intent on eating before it gets too dark to see. The Italian appears to be dozing, or pretending to be. Does he expect to be left without food and water? It's not unreasonable, and a morbid part of Yusuf wonders how such a death would play out; fading away on an empty stomach, then returning, just as starved. Cyclical agony.

How long could a man survive like that?

Yusuf cuts away some slices of cheese, rips off some chunks of bread, and goes to kneel in front of his captive with one of the water skins in tow. Because he's not a Frank. And, given the choice of letting the man suffer as his people suffered and just running him through with a blade, Yusuf would still pick the latter, even now. The war hasn't worn his empathy away quite yet.

As expected, the Italian isn't actually sleeping. His eyes snap open the moment Yusuf gets close, and within seconds, he wriggles and jerks himself into an upright position, the wall of the cave at his back. As if he can fight him. Or run.

Yusuf scoffs and uncorks the skin, bringing the mouth of it to the man's lips. "Relax, Frank," he murmurs. "You don't have to trust me, but I'm certainly not about to kill you with flatbread."

Not assuaged, the man stubbornly presses his lips together and turns his head away.

"And if swords and arrows didn't do the job, I doubt poison will," Yusuf adds, unimpressed with this sudden hunger strike. Why not fill his belly, even if it could kill him? Hardly a time to be picky.

He makes a big gesture of taking several sips himself, to show that it's safe, but loses his patience at the Frank' foolish continuing obstinance. Refusing water in a fucking _desert_. Perhaps Isma'il's rumors about Franks aren't entirely off: maybe they truly are all uneducated idiots.

Sighing, Yusuf clamps the man's nose shut with two fingers. He waits for the confused jerk, the grunt, the blotchy bloom of red in his cheeks - and as the Italian finally gasps for breath, he shoves the tip of the water skin down his throat.

It takes a bit of choking and glaring and water dribbling down into the Italian's beard, down his chin and neck, but he does drink. Yusuf watches his throat bob with grim satisfaction, like a man who's coaxed a wild animal out into the open.

"I suppose you weren't expecting your killer to make an effort to help you live," Yusuf says as he pulls the container away again. The Italian glowers. Yusuf shrugs. Fair enough.

Next, to make this mongrel stray of his eat from his hand. He brings up the small, bite-sized handfuls of food he prepared. Sets them carefully on his knee and waggles a bit of cheese to draw the man's eye, popping it into his mouth.

 _See?_ he raises his eyebrows. _Safe._

There's less of a fight this time, though the wariness is still there when Yusuf holds out some bread. The Italian glances from his face, to the food, then - oh what a small victory it is - he leans forward and opens his mouth to accept it, teeth delicately grasping the food like he's making every effort to avoid touching Yusuf if he can. But he _does_ take it. And he eats.

It's a cautious back and forth endeavor. Yusuf eats a bite, feeds some to the Italian, and so on. While they chew, they watch each other with sharp eyes and Yusuf catches the other man's eyes slanting in the direction of the dagger more than once.

But it's not overly hostile. More like begrudgingly neutral. Yusuf had been expecting a fight, and he's still surprised he didn't get one when he holds out the final mouthful of bread to the Italian.

Like always, the Italian's mouth mechanically parts. But he doesn't stop at the food, he leans in closer and gently, his lips close around Yusuf's fingertips. They're warm. And his eyes are wider, bluer than they've ever been as he looks up at Yusuf. More breeze than brutal gale. A tongue scrapes over his thumb, the smallest of licks, as the bread morsel is licked out of his grip. Yusuf holds his breath, suspecting, but...

Too late.

The Italian's teeth flash, viper-quick, and clamp down around Yusuf's fingers like a steel trap. They scrape bone. They draw blood.

 _"Shit,"_ Yusuf hisses and tries to yank his fingers back, but the Italian holds him fast, snarling around the wrecked digits in his mouth. Oh, but it _hurts_ , and Yusuf's thin patience snaps again at the nerve of this idiot to literally bite the hand feeding him.

His uninjured hand whips out to grab the man by the neck, palm pressing against his throat. The force of it is enough to shove the Italian backwards into the cave wall so hard his head bounces against the rock. It's also enough to dislodge the mangled fingers from his mouth.

The Italian huffs a short, bitter laugh and bares a gruesome red grin that makes him look feral, wild.

To think Yusuf considered him _tamed._

The challenge in the man's eyes only makes Yusuf press down on the man's jugular _harder_. There's power in feeling his throat twitch against his fingers, in watching him doggedly struggle against a grip he can't possibly hope to break, in tracing the curve of his bloodied mouth as he tries to uselessly suck in air to his starving lungs.

"Hungry for meat, are you?" Yusuf feels the last of his self-control slipping. Too many hours spent in confusion, perhaps. His irritation is breeding anger, it's pulling up his hatred, his loss, his pain. He sees his men, dead in their beds, just this morning, just _hours_ ago. He remembers them. He imagines the rows of bodies at Al-Quds, too, stack high and tall. "Yet you call _us_ animals."

The Frank's smugness cracks, fractures to reveal panic. Yusuf digs his fingernails in, scratches at that soft, markless skin until raised, jagged lines dominate the pale canvas.

This man - this _beast_ \- would kill him, _has_ killed him without hesitation. He's probably slain women, butchered children, all in the name of his God, out of love for that book he carries with him. Keeps its pages pristine and white while he paints himself bloody. For _justice_. For _righteousness._

Why did this man get to live when others were left to rot?

The Frank makes a single, desperate gurgling sound.

 _God, why did this man, of all other men, have to be tied to_ me?

Yusuf presses and presses and presses and waits until he _chokes._

Then, softly: "I would rather burn a thousand times alone than live a single life trapped with you."

The Italian is on the verge of passing out when Yusuf eases the pressure on his throat, just enough that he can sob for breath, voice a hoarse, crackling moan.

Shadowy bruises in the shape of Yusuf's fingertips and half-moon indentations of his nails decorate his neck like painful jewels, with a centerpiece of his pale, pretty freckles.

It's not enough.

Lost to the roaring storm of fury in his bloodstream, Yusuf grabs at the Italian's neck again, pushing at his jawline until his already abused neck is stretched and bared. He doesn't think. He doesn't stop. He just leans in, sets his teeth to the soft skin of his throat, and _sucks._

His bites are harsh, unrelenting, and he trails a painful line of them along the Italian's neck. He paints his flesh in blues and purples. He sears angry red marks in the shape of his mouth, following the vein that thrums with the man's rapid, sprinting heart beat.

 _It's not enough._ He wants him to hurt. He wants him to be punished.

The Italian's breath is coming in a gasping, hitched staccato as he writhes against the cave wall. "Sm-smettila," he whispers weakly. _"Basta,"_ and Yusuf bites down again, and he's cursing, calling him a filthy saracen.

Stop, stop, stop - is that the Italian saying this, or God speaking through him, warning him?

The Frank starts to kick. They're pitiful attempts of shoving his knees at Yusuf, at trying to push at him so he can twist away. It's easy to ignore, and Yusuf does, just shifts to sit on his thighs, all the while licking and nipping his way back over his bite marks. They feel hot against his lips, irritated and tender.

Every move he makes pulls an intoxicating reaction from the man underneath him. Yusuf flattens his tongue against the bruises until he feels the other man squirm against him. He sucks at his adam's apple just to taste the salt and sweat of those fragile freckles gathered on his skin. He presses a thumb into a bite that broke skin to feel the vibrations of each ragged, broken noise rattling behind the man's clenched teeth.

"Weren't you the one with my filthy fingers in your mouth, hmm?" Yusuf says softly into his aching skin. "Perhaps you liked the taste?" and it's despicable, villainous, but he's already dragging his other hand up the Frank's leg, clawing up and up his thigh, because _he's_ the demon, isn't he? He's doing this, touching this man, and he has no intention of stopping.

His faith prohibits this. His pent-up pain demands it.

His fingers find the Italian's groin. They curl over unexpected firmness and the Italian stutters, stills. Yusuf roughly drags his palm up and he _moans._

"Oh?

Yusuf"s vision narrows in on the flush rising on the man's face. It makes him exhale sharply, feeling stunned, hysterical, out of control.

"You like that?" He presses down harder and the Italian's traitorous hips twitch, arching his half-hard cock up into his hands. Yusuf sits back to look the other man in the eye and inclines his head down towards the secret between his legs.

It's his turn to laugh.

"Who's the filthy one now?"

The Frank's mouth twists in disgust, perhaps even shame, as he sharply jerks forward to headbutt Yusuf.

_"Agh- fuck!"_

It's enough to lift the fog, to set reality back in order and witness what exactly he had done. Yusuf can't move fast enough to get off the man and retreat back to his side of the cave.

It feels like falling from a horse: one moment, they had been barreling at impossible speeds towards the unknown, and now all they can do is lie still and assess the damage. Yusuf is hard. His fingers are nearly healed, and he watches the ring of teeth indentations around his knuckles slowly close up and smooth over until nothing remains. The Italian hunches into himself a while, unmoving.

The silence settling over them is razor-sharp. It digs under Yusuf's skin until he _itches_ with it. But he doesn't dare shift from his spot on the floor.

They sit, avoiding each other's eyes, until there's nothing to see in the dark and nothing to do but wait for morning.

It seems almost like the Italian has fallen asleep sitting up, but he soon uncurls enough to lie down, twisting his body awkwardly so he can somewhat lie on his back without putting all his weight on the hands still bound behind him.

Even in the dimness, his neck is a clear massacre of bite marks. A horrendous painting where teeth and tongue served as brushes. Yusuf's stomach twists.

Yusuf doesn't feel guilt, though. Nor shame. If anything, without the visceral burn of it - whatever he had tapped into - searing through his veins, he just feels oddly hollow. He doesn't even know the man, yet he realizes with a start that he's furious that the marks he left on him are already healing back into his flesh.

It's nearly pitch-black, but he knows neither of them will be sleeping a while yet.

In slow, careful Italian, Yusuf dares to speak. He offers the darkness a question.

"What is your name?"

If the Frank is surprised at his own language spilling from his enemy's tongue, he doesn't show it. Yusuf can just barely make out the way he merely frowns up at the roof of the cave while the marks on his neck bleed away.

It's silent for a while. No answer. Yusuf can't exactly blame him.

"Nicolò," the Frank answers dully.

It hovers between them. Yusuf considers it, its implications, and the step they're both taking in a space veiled with night and smelling of the sea and heavy with _knowing._

"They call me Yusuf," he murmurs in response, memorizing each and every bruise he made until even the darkest stain, the clearest evidence of what he had just done, finally fades from sight.

* * *

He dreams of the trio again, two women and a man, their camaraderie and warmth. They call to him, again and again, beckoning him to find them. But he wouldn't know where to begin, he still hasn't learned how to respond to their call. When he fails to speak, they fade into the recesses of his mind, out of reach.

Instead, pale eyes seek him out from the darkness, catch him and hold him fast. They flicker from blue to grey - a storm, a rain-swollen river, a glinting blade- volatile and dangerous. Hands press into his chest, comb through his hair, grasping at him, plucking at his armor, and all Yusuf sees are full lips set in a handsome face framed by constellations of freckles.

A husky, warm voice says his name, each syllable dripping like honey and sweet syrups. The air smells of flatbread. It feels like sunlight on his ocean-kissed cold skin.

The mouth of a water skin touches his lips. He knows it's poison, even as he greedily drinks deep and swallows every drop down.

"Yusuf," the shadows whisper, directly to his heart, _"Shaytan,_ are you here to make me eat the forbidden fruit?"

Are you here to tempt me?

Are you here to drag me into temptation?

Still, Yusuf finds no response to voice, no words to form his tongue around. He drinks and drinks and he thinks he may drown in it.

 _You are the demon_ , he thinks weakly, falling apart as a bare body presses against his, hard and needy on his hip. _You have pulled me low, away from God, away from everything I know._

The tempting lips part and curl into a wicked grin, revealing teeth stained with blood.

_All I have left is you._

Yusuf sinks deep into flesh that arches sinfully against him, pushes into the tight, sticky heat until they're tangled together like snakes on a pomegranate vine. Over and over, he drinks and drinks and knows he will drown in it.

**Ramadan 23 / August 13 (before)**

Yusuf wakes up minutes before dawn, as per his habit, and after offering a hushed, unfocused Fajr, he returns to the cave to find Nicolò waiting for him.

"So you speak Italian?" the man prods immediately, a wrinkle in his brow, just between eyes that are pale as seafoam in the morning light. He's looking a little haggard, actually; already sweating from the heat, with exhaustion gathered at the corners of his eyes, but there's hardly any room between Yusuf's tumultuous thoughts to feel bad about it.

"Ah-" Yusuf hesitates, wary of this newly established line of communication that will only bring them closer together. Then: "Yes. A bit."

"Good. I know you won't untie me," and it seems like the man's dropped some of his Northern dialect, he sounds much closer to Rome now, so Yusuf can pick out a few more words than before, "But will you at least loosen the ropes? I need to piss."

Yusuf frowns.

Nicolò raises an eyebrow.

"Do I need to say it slower, saracen?"

For a man who had been so tight-lipped before, he's certainly talkative this morning.

"I heard you," Yusuf replies evenly, though irritation flares under his skin like a fever. He should strike him for the insult, perhaps even run him through to get him to reconsider his words. The damn bastard - was he the only one to be haunted with nightmares last night, still chewing over the implications and the sins he's carved into his soul?"

While he considers an appropriately derisive response, Nicolò sighs impatiently, lifts his chin to underline the point. The motion tugs on Yusuf's attention like a siren's song, and he, the dumbfounded sailor, finds his gaze slipping. He glances down, drinking in the tense clench of the man's jaw. There's sand in his beard, stuck to his bottom lip. And that slender column of his neck - it's unmarked, like he knew it would be. Like he had never even touched him. A clean slate. Yusuf's fingers twitch into a fist.

_Are you here to tempt me?_

This test, this trial, whatever this is, he's surely failing it.

Yusuf decides to go for a swim. To think on this situation. To wash away the memory of the taste of the man's skin.

He leaves the Italian howling into the dirt behind him, cursing and spitting around the gag Yusuf tied there before he left.

**Ramadan 23 / August 13 (after)**

A few things happen at once. Yusuf learns that while he was gone, Nicolò had managed to find a broken seashell to saw off the bindings on his hands. There's blood in the sand, and still-healing cuts on his wrist, which means he hadn't been gentle in his escape. He also learns that the snarling and threatening had been a distraction so that the man could finish wriggling out of the ropes around his ankles.

He, of course, learns all of this in the moment that Nicolò sits up and grabs at the hilt of the dagger, attempting to wrest it away from him. Yusuf doesn't even try to hide his surprise at the escape.

"You sneaky little shit."

The Italian's eyes sharpen in vicious triumph, "You shouldn't have gagged me."

Nicolò yanks at the knife. Yusuf keeps his grip on it, just barely, and growls. "You're right, I should have just taken your tongue."

The Italian launches himself at him, diving for the weapon, and Yusuf is more than happy to meet his charge. It's an ugly fight; hours of pent-up frustration finally spilling like water to the ground, unable to be recovered. They grapple and roll on the floor, fingers clawing for the eyes, elbows digging into ribs, sand flying everywhere. Yusuf is cruel and quick, Nicolò harsh and unrelenting.

A good fight.

Yusuf tries to keep the knife away, but the Italian's a decent wrestler. He knows where to grip, how to roll and contort himself out of Yusuf's holds. Unfortunately for him, Yusuf grew up wrestling the nastiest and biggest bullies he could find, so Nicolò's slippery tactics are just an irritation.

Which is why he's so shocked to find himself on his back, pinned. Nicolò's knee is in his stomach.

His knife is embedded in his side.

 _Fuck._ Yusuf's cry of pain knocks against his gritted teeth. It's his second unpleasant surprise of the day. _Might not survive a third._

Nicolò hisses a curse, recognizing immediately that the placement is hardly fatal. His hand is a blur as it pulls the knife out without warning, which makes Yusuf groan as soon as it slides free. Reflexively, he lashes out with a fist. He misses.

 _"Damn_ you-"

But Nicolò is already scrambling backwards, panting as he looks for another opening.

-and if Yusuf doesn't move, he'll fucking find it. Pushing aside the pain as something to deal with later, Yusuf grunts and rolls forward, snatching Nicolò's ankle before he can get too far. He jerks at it, and Nicolò, caught off guard, falls on his ass with a flail.

He knows he should be paying attention to the blade, the man's knees, those vicious thighs, but instead, he sees that Nicolò's bottom lip got split in the scuffle. Stares at it, noting how inflamed and red it is, making it swell. So puffed up it catches on his front teeth while he catches his breath. The fact that he sees it, can't stop himself from tripping on the obvious distraction, making a memory of it, that alone incenses him more than the freely bleeding wound in his gut.

It makes Yusuf _burn._

"Damn you," he repeats under his breath, steels his grip on the man's ankle, then _tugs_ , dragging Nicolò towards himself until he's in an unnervingly familiar position: on his knees, with the Italian on his back beneath him.

Except this time, Nicolò has a knife, which he swings at him like a scorpion with its stinger. Yusuf bats it away, hardly registering it, and paws at the man's hip, pushes so he has Nicolò thrashing on his stomach.

The Italian struggles to right himself, snarling like an angry, wet cat. When he manages to get to his knees, Yusuf simply shoves his shoulder back down, gets his chest flush with the floor. And when the knife stabs at him again, it's just a matter of snatching Nicolò's wrist, slamming it repeatedly against the floor of the cave until his fingers finally uncurl and the blade skitters away, forgotten.

The Italian is losing the fight. Yusuf's blood _sings_ with the knowledge, with feeling the man beneath him beat at him, trying to find a weakness, a point to exploit, and coming up helplessly empty.

 _Ah. The poison,_ he remembers belatedly, looking down at the broad expanse of Nicolò's shaking back. He had drunk so deep, hadn't he? Maybe this is why he's doing this. He'd drunk it all - and now it's in his veins, at the back of his throat, under his fingernails, threatening to melt him away from the inside out, to reduce him to ashes if he lets it run its course.

Yet, why take the journey alone?

Let Nicolò feel every bitter drop of hatred and pain and disgust as it pours from Yusuf's touch into him.

Let him die a countless times: it still would not be enough to live every life lost at Al-Quds, outside Asqalon. But Yusuf would be happy to be there every step and make sure he _tried_. He would be there to wait until he repented, and he would be there to deny him salvation.

Let the Italian burn up with him. Burn until they are nothing but dust, hovering, lost, in those empty spaces of in-between.

Nicolò spits sand from his mouth and looks over his shoulder. "I'll kill you," he pants, wincing when Yusuf wrenches his arm up and backwards, painfully rolling his shoulder to pin his arm behind him back and remove any possible leverage for him to fully get up from the floor.

"Already tried that, remember?" Yusuf leans in, drapes his body over Nicolò's to weigh him down, and gets his free hand underneath the both of them to grip at Nicolò's front, hold him fast.

The instant Nicolò realizes the position he's in, face down with his rear raised in the air, his movements take on a desperate edge. His remaining hand scrabbles for something to hold. "I will take your heart and rip it to shreds," he forces out, planting the vow into the dirt like he hopes it will take root. "Y-you are not fit to touch me - I am guided by God and you will not-"

"... what?" Yusuf says in a hiss. "Sully you?"

His fingers move before his mind can catch up, slithering down Nicolò's chest, stomach, to lightly brush over the lacings of his trousers. "Dirty you with my unworthy hands?"

Nicolò bucks, but Yusuf is well beyond stopping. He doesn't even feel his wound anymore, already congealing back into unbroken skin without him ever noticing it, the pain of it so irrelevant compared to the way his blood is scorching through him, flushing out reason to leave only carnal instincts.

He wants to dig his fingertips into pliant flesh. To leave more red-purple marks in the imprint of his teeth. To bring this man to heel, debase him, make him shiver before his God and be deemed unworthy as a result.

Without warning, Yusuf presses the heel of his hand between Nicolò's legs. Nicolò makes a punched out sound of protest at the pressure, twisting his body so hard his knees scrape out small valleys in the sand as he tries to get away.

Not that he can escape the evidence cupped in Yusuf's palm, hard and heavy. It's more effective than any snare.

_Caught you._

"Little pup, I've barely even begun," he starts to stroke him through the several layers of clothing, delighting in the flinch that shudders through the body he's caged with his own. "Can't you see you've already defiled yourself?"

"This-" Nicolò grits out, "this is _your_ doing, I-"

Yusuf leans in even closer to press his forehead to the wing of a shoulder, just to hear Nicolò's shallow breaths turn harsh and ragged and to feel him unravel.

"Will God accept you now, I wonder? How will you go before him, knowing that a lowly saracen touched you like this?" he breathes into Nicolò's ear, and turns his attention to the ties of his pants, roughly pulling them loose. "At least you're already on your knees."

He doesn't know why he's goading him like this, bringing up his faith at every turn like an extra turn of the knife. But the frustration and despair of the last few hours have driven his hand and his tongue and he wants to make him feel as low as he does. Yusuf can't be the only one floundering in these depraved depths. Prayer won't wipe this away. Drink won't cloud the memory of this sin. Even if their bodies are blessed to heal all wounds, this will scar. Every touch, every word spoken will be etched in stone, dipped in permanence.

Nicolò sucks in a sharp breath, tries to flatten his whole body against the ground and stop Yusuf from going any further. "I will _bury_ you in the sands-"

It might have worked, if Yusuf wasn't faster, wasn't charting every single twitch and mapping each shiver to keep him locked in place.

"Perhaps you will," Yusuf agrees with a sigh of a laugh. "But be sure to dig deep."

Leaving off the laces, he slips his arm across Nicolò's waist. Holds him firm then, with a groan, pulls the man into himself, slotting them together, ass to groin.

"Don't you want to finish what we started?" Yusuf takes his time grinding into Nicolò, letting the other man feel the full length of his arousal slide against him. His pants are still damp from the ocean, and the heavy way they hang make the sensation all the more pronounced, heady. "We can plead for forgiveness together."

A beat passes, a space that spans across one heartbeat, then a second. Yusuf waits for a response. It's the only opening he'll allow; a fraction of escape, if Nicolò knows to spot it.

He could say no.

Yusuf stares at the bowed crown of the man's head. Catalogues Nicolò's free arm dragging in the sand and curling beneath him so he can press his forehead into the crook of his elbow. Hears the harsh gasps hitch when he lets go of his hips to tease at the laces again.

Nicolò doesn't struggle against the cage of Yusuf's body again.

And he doesn't say no.

It should feel more like a plunge, a dive from a cliff for him to go against a lifetime of teaching to touch another man like this. To Yusuf, it feels more like tripping, and endlessly, endlessly falling. It feels like his fingers making quick work of the trousers, of the braies beneath, so they can ease around his cock, pulling it out into the sea-tinted air. Palms it, warm and heavy, in his hand.

At his touch, Nicolò shivers with a bitten off _nn_ sound that could have been protest or pleasure. Yusuf chases after it, running his fingertips over the stiff length of him briefly before fisting him at the base, stroking upward until his thumb can swipe the sensitive tip and find the sticky liquid beading there.

 _"Ah-"_ Another involuntary sound, bubbling out through the cracks.

"So quiet," Yusuf hums against the man's shoulder. "When you had so much to say before, didn't you?"

 _"-won't..._ won't give you the satisfaction," Nicolò grits out weakly.

All bark and some bite, but Yusuf, and the _burn_ inside him, want to hear him whine. Unmoved, he smiles.

"Yes you will."

Yusuf strokes him harder, digging down into the man's weakness to undo him completely. Nicolò shifts, squirms again as his cock twitches in Yusuf's unrelenting grip. Groaning, Yusuf reflexively jerks his hips forward, eager to ease the pressure on his own cock and mindlessly grind down with slow, rolling thrusts. It's good. Nicolò feels _so good_ against him, firm lines of muscle and aching heat. It's all Yusuf can do to not just give in to that cloying, intoxicating friction, especially when his own cock slides against the seam of Nicolò's ass through his trousers.

It injects the terrible idea of how much further he can take this depravity.

And. It makes Nicolò, ever so subtly, press back into him. Maybe he doesn't even realize it. Maybe he's just as lost in this as he is. The cracks were splitting open, leaving this proud warrior, his killer and his prisoner, raw and aching under his hands.

Yusuf can't hold back a shiver of his own, rutting harder into the other man. Shameless. "Still want to slit my throat, Frank?"

"Y-yes," Nicolò breathes out, sounding distant, almost sluggish.

"Would you like me to stop so you can?"

There's no reply to that, beyond a strained exhalation that almost sounds like a curse.

Yusuf almost laughs. "Perhaps I'll let you try later, pup," he says, starting to sound a little unraveled himself, "once you've had your fill of wriggling against me."

But even if Nicolò is swallowing back as much noise as he can, the rest of his body's reactions cannot be so hidden. The back of his neck blushes dark red in a flush that's probably taken over much of his throat and chest. And his legs tremble, threaten to collapse with each twist of Yusuf's fist. Eventually, Yusuf has enough pre-cum smeared over his fingers, spread along the hard length of his stubborn partner's cock that the slide of skin on skin becomes smoother, faster.

"Unless..." Yusuf pauses, dips his hand down, down, to roll Nicolò's sensitive balls in his palm and, none too kindly, suggestively thrust his hips forward a little harder, "... there's another way you'd like to be filled?"

Nicolò physically _jerks_ at the implication, making another strangled _ngh._ His ears go pink. Yusuf wants to sketch the sight of him nearly as much as he desperately wants to fuck him in this moment.

The distant ocean, the push and pull of the tide, Yusuf can no longer hear it over the sounds of his slicked-up hand continuing to relentlessly stroke Nicolò past the point of forgiveness and Nicolò's sharp, shallow pants as he sinks into the oblivion beyond.

Yusuf teeters close to it, himself, feeling the tight spiral of heat coil in his stomach in warning. It makes his hips stutter, makes him exhale deep and slow into the curve of Nicolò's shoulder.

It makes him forget himself. A slip in judgement, leading him to release Nicolò's hand, still pinned behind him. He doesn't realize his mistake until Nicolò pulls it back carefully, steadies himself with it by propping it up in the sand.

Yusuf stills. Holds his breath as he readies for another fight, mentally cursing himself through the fog in his head that allowed this to happen. Logically, he welcomes it, this possible distraction that would take him from an already irreversible choice, but the boil of his blood howls at him, at the thought of being denied this.

The second his hand stops, awkwardly curled around Nicolò's weeping cock, Nicolò actually _moans._ The sound of it, soft and _wanting,_ rattles around in Yusuf's head, loops around each of his ribs until the weight of it threatens to crush him.

There's silence for a tense moment, the two of them frozen together.

Until Nicolò finally, quietly snarls, "I didn't tell you to stop."

Slow as leopard easing itself forward before an attack, Nicolò pushes himself up to his knees until he's vertical. Until his whole body is pressed against Yusuf's bare chest, the curve of the sun in the arch of his back. He reaches behind himself, up, up, to sink his fingers into Yusuf's curls and rest his head lightly on his shoulder. Then he yanks at Yusuf's hair, dragging him forward to hiss in his ear,

"Do it. Stop talking and do it."

Yusuf can only see the corner of his mouth, the angry set of it, along with a single glaring eye. Nicolò leans back even more, insistently rubbing himself against Yusuf's front like he's in heat. He's daring him to carry out his threat, staring him down to see if his words were empty after all. Yusuf can feel the heat of him through the arming doublet he's still wearing and it makes his heartbeat pound like a drum in his ears while his mouth goes dry with craving.

A huff. The single eye he can see rolls in its socket.

"Do I need to say it slower, saracen?"

Yusuf needs no further goading. He goes to get the oil.

**[Month] ??**

Nicky lets out a gentle, breathless chuckle, falling back on the bed, one hand under his head. The other is stretched out, reaching down so he can easily card his fingers through Joe's hair. Joe is more than happy to rest there, sitting on the floor, cradled between Nicky's bare legs and propping his cheek on his inner thigh to watch his love's cock soften after lazily sucking him to completion.

It's morning. The sheets of the bed are crisp, clean, white. Beyond the window, a beautiful city awakens, but the hustle and bustle doesn't reach their hotel room, doesn't touch the slow rise and fall of Nicky's chest while he lounges in the uncaring, nude sprawl of a thoroughly satisfied man.

He's a study of lean muscle and drops of sweat collected in the bend of his elbow and a swollen bottom lip, red as ripe cherries. Yusuf could drink in the image like wine, drink himself stupid with it.

"That's not how it happened, heart," Nicky murmurs in drowsy Arabic, spreading his legs further apart with a pleased sound as Joe begins to run his hands up and down his calves, kneading his fingertips into sore hamstrings, thumbs whispering over the crux where his legs meet his groin.

Joe hums in acknowledgement, pressing a kiss into soft skin. "You didn't like my story?"

A snort, a teasing tug at the hair at the nape of his neck that makes Yusuf _feel_ Nicolò's grin, even if he can't quite see it. "Oh, I liked that cave you made up. I notice you left out the part where you took the damn horse and ran off the second you knocked me out on that beach. Took me two months to find you again, remember?" Nicky pauses, traces the shell of Joe's ear with his index finger in the brief quiet, "and another before I finally came to your bed."

"All recorded history is one-sided story-telling and twisted fact," Joe says, spreading the full width of his hand out on Nicky's belly and rubbing his palm through the fine hairs there. "Why can't I shape ours the way I like?"

It's teasing. No more than empty words and idle conversation. They, of all people, have grown to appreciate that preserving truth is vital when time has a habit of warping even the most innocuous of details. Nothing is too small. Everything, in its own way, carries weight and importance, even if it's not always clear.

Nicky still sits up, head cocked in mild surprise. "You don't mean that."

"I don't," Joe smiles in reassurance, kissing his thigh again. He's rewarded with Nicky cupping his cheek with a warm palm, and he kisses that, too. "But I can't deny my version has its... merits."

A light tug on his earlobe is enough to prod him to explain himself.

"I wouldn't have left you to starve on an abandoned beach, for one."

"Mm, thanks. Nine hundred years ago, I would have certainly appreciated that," Nicky deadpans, sinking back into the sheets. Joe gets up, too, crawling up onto the bed to lie down beside him, unable to keep the fond smile from his lips when Nicky automatically curls in towards him. Molding himself to him and fitting perfectly.

Joe continues. "It would have been less time wasted," he shrugs. "All those months, searching for answers, searching _myself_ , and running from the answer all the while like a blind fool."

"Months are nothing compared to the multitudes of decades we've lived," Nicky points out. His eyes are starling eggs today, seeing right through him and his vague ramblings as usual.

Joe can only see the freckles on his neck, ever-present and constant. He counts them. Counts all ten to find the words he wants to say.

"I would have recognized you sooner, dearest."

It's a fact. A confession. An ever-present regret. It's rooted itself in his chest like a weed and Joe's lost track of how deep it's managed to burrow into his veins. "I would have split my heart open in that cave and placed you there to keep you."

But he tugs on the overgrowth and it _gives_ , just a fraction, and Yusuf can breathe a little easier.

Nicky, in response, just sighs, warm but exasperated, and taps at his chin to get Yusuf to lift his gaze. "Romantic. You kept me all the same, didn't you? Or is this just a temporary thing?" and like he's just had a revelation, Nicky sighs again, heavier, and shoves at Joe's shoulder until Joe tips onto his back and he can clamber onto him to straddle his hips. _"Ah,_ I should have known, you have commitment issues. That's it, isn't it? Typical. I should have left you to rot in that jail cell in Barcelona. _In fact,_ I shouldn't have ever followed you all the way to Rome, if this is the treatment I get, saracen."

He proceeds to poke at Joe's chest, taunting, challenging. "Blasphemer. _Moor._ "

Leave it to Nicky to lighten the mood with his sass. Joe grumbles and snatches at Nicky's finger, even as the corners of his mouth pull upward unconsciously. "Asshole."

Still, it's satisfying to watch Nicky's pupils slowly dilate and darken as he brings his finger to his mouth and kitten-licks the tip of it.

"What else would you have done in the cave, Yusuf?" Nicky's voice has dipped to a husky, low octave, while Joe sucks in more of the digit, laving it with his tongue. "Finish the story."

Joe doesn't respond until Nicky finally has to pull his hand away, breathing a little harder from Joe's attentions. "I would have given you what you wanted."

Nicky's eyebrows inch upward. "That easily?"

"Would you have preferred it if I made you beg, Nicolò? Made you wait and writhe until you cried out for me?" Nicky's hitched inhale is answer enough and Joe's hands travel to his hips, rubbing warm circles there briefly. "Would you have? Would the proud crusading priest have begged me to touch him with my filthy saracen hands?"

Nicky's cock twitches and fills as Joe teases a full-body flush out of him. "Yes," he breathes out on the slow, subsequent exhale, "anything. Anything for your fingers, Yusuf."

Joe rumbles in approval, gripping Nicky's hip a little harder to tug him forward at the same time as he rolls his hips up, bringing their lengths together, rubbing against each other with a sweet, toe-numbing friction. Nicky makes a quiet, shaky noise, eyes fluttering when Joe does it again, grinding their erections together. It's clumsy, imperfect, but that's what makes it so good.

"Beg, then."

"Fuck," Nicky throws his head back with a faint laugh at this game they're playing that twists into a whine when Joe slides a hand around to rub a teasing finger against his hole. "Please. I _want_ \- I need your hands. Want them on me, filling me."

He's beautiful like this, arching over him, pink mouth parted with his cock standing to attention. Joe can't look away, so he has to reach out blindly, groping along the bedsheets until he finds the bottle of lube he'd tossed there.

"Where do you want my fingers, Nicolò?" he purrs, watching Nicky continue grinding himself down in languid rolls of his body, almost too distracted by the sight to properly click open the bottle and slick up his fingers.

"Inside me, p-please," Nicky pants, seemingly obedient, though Yusuf doesn't miss the faint smirk hovering at the edge of his mouth. "Want you to fill me up with your fingers, Yusuf. Want you to fuck me open until I'm wrecked from them."

"And then?" Joe already knows the answer. He wants to hear it all the same.

"And then," Nicky says in a croon, and God, all Joe sees is that thin line of keen, bright blue around blown out black, a whirlpool of a gaze that could sweep him away in seconds and leave him lost in the tides afterward.

"Then I want you to fuck me with your cock until I forget what century it is."

Well, who can say no to that? Who can say no to the way Nicky's mouth drops in a stuttering moan when Joe finally pushes a finger inside him, first to the first knuckle, then the second in slow, dragging thrusts. Or the sweet scrabble of Nicky's hands on his chest, trying to stay balanced while continuing to take everything Joe has to give him?

"Look at you, pleading to be ruined by a saracen before God himself." And then it's two fingers, three, pushing inside and stretching him open like he's made to take it and Nicky is _mewling_ with it, curving his body so he can push right back against Joe's hand. _Greedy._ "Aren't I unworthy of this vessel of yours, sweetheart?"

"Let God see. Let him watch." Nicky mumbles, opening his eyes a slit to stare down at Joe. "This _vessel_ is yours t-to do with what you like," and it's like he feels Joe's disbelief, his skipping heart shivering inside his ribcage, because he licks his lips and leans forward to bump his forehead against Joe's, firmly repeating _'yours'_ in a soft, devoted mantra.

He only stops when Joe guides him to slide down on his cock, to stuff himself full with it, to start riding him like he's done thousands of times before. He only stops so he can start murmuring Yusuf's name instead, letting it leak out from the hand he has pressed loosely over his mouth as he fucks himself on Joe's length again and again, muscles tightening with the effort, lips forming a spit-slick, gasping "o" shape when Joe thrusts _just so._

He chases his completion and Joe thrusts up to meet him, cataloging each and every part of him like he's always done, like he always will afterward. Each detail a recognition of his soul and Nicolò's, bound together in limited immortality, to be stowed away in his reverent heart that's cursed/blessed to keep beating ever on.

Nicky reaches for him as he comes, fingers tangling together while their mouths crush into a bruising, hungry kiss. Joe sucks away the hurt after biting into Nicky's bottom lip. Nicky moans and moans and licks his way inside Joe's mouth until Joe is left with nothing to breathe in but Nicky's cries. Joe holds him as he gently collapses, deflates onto his chest, then follows soon after, burying his face in Nicky's sweet-smelling hair with a deep, grateful moan. They sink into familiar oblivion, and it feels like tripping, and endlessly, endlessly falling

Only much later, after dozing in ruined sheets, legs intertwined like vines on a branch, does the pair finally decide to get up.

Nicky returns from the shower, starts to get dressed while Joe watches from the bed. It’s comfortable. Like a habit.

"Your story. This alternate history," Nicky cocks his head, scrubbing at his hair with a towel, "will you let me write a part of it?"

Joe pretends to consider it, humming under his breath. "That depends on the part."

"The last chapter," is Nicky's immediate reply. He strolls over only half-dressed and radiant as a full moon. There's water caught in his lashes like dew, and his freshly shaven face makes him look so young.

Joe can't help but smile fondly when he sits on the edge of the bed, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "Ah, but I'm not sure the story's over yet, Nicolò."

Nicky shrugs, very much unbothered. His bare arms are still warm from the shower. He smells like saffron. "All stories have to end somewhere. That's the chapter I want to write."

Joe humors him with a chuckle, nuzzling his arm, breathing him in. "And what would it say?"

"The Frank and the saracen grow old together," Nicky says firmly, so impossibly sure and certain, stretching out a hand to smooth over one of Joe's eyebrows with his thumb. His touch is lighter than air, but Joe feels the kindness of it in his bones. It's enough to make Joe fall in love with him all over again. "And spend every waking moment of their final days in each other's orbits like burning out stars, savoring the warmth as they burn away, until they step through to the other side. And that, they do together, too."

A happy ending? And Nicky calls _him_ the romantic. Joe swallows back a sudden lump that's grown at the back of his throat, settled there like a mouthful of wine not quite drunk.

"It may not happen that way," he points out, reluctant but too pragmatic not to.

Which makes Nicky beam like a supernova, yet Joe's the one who feels like he's about to explode. "But you can't deny my version has... merits."

Any further protests are stopped with Nicky's lips on his, soft and hopeful, then forgotten entirely when Nicky nips him and laughs, wild and untamed as ever, leading him into a future that's theirs to shape as they like.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](https://yilinglaowhoops.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/letstortoise)


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